self indulgence is for the scrumps in the room

Standard


“What is Poetry!?” The professor wore
motorcycle leathers and had whispy blond hair.
Everyday he stood in front of his garage
and revved his motorcycle engine, but he always
took a taxi.

A tender student stood up and told the hall:
“Poetry is expression.” The room was so
happy; they lambasted the cement floor, and
applauded.    A punk stood up: “it’s the reluctance
to throw away the cotton swab when you’re
finished.” The professor told him to leave
the room.

The dean was called by that professor who
told that dean that that student
shant return, and decreed that he shall, rather,
wash rivers with his feet, from now until
his dying day.




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